Swiss Cheese and Other Drugs
by Andixa
Summary: Two days after escaping Belle Reve, and Lex is having a Bad Day, capital letters very much intended.


Two days after escaping Belle Reve, and Lex is having a Bad Day, capital letters very much intended.

It might even be a BAD DAY. See? All caps.

His paranoid haze is fading, has been for two days, but his brain is still Swiss cheese. The drugs are finally shaking their way out of his system, making him sweat the way opiates and designer chemical entertainment had never quite managed. Self-medication would've helped if he hadn't accidentally dropped the vodka, followed up by intentionally dropping the scotch. Screw dad and his older-than-dirt booze, anyway, but now he's got glass in his foot and the rest of the alcohol is all the way downstairs.

Whatever. He's pretty sure drinking might have killed him. Or killed a normal person, at least; he's not usually bothered by little things like adverse drug interactions. Of course, depending on the drug, going cold-turkey could kill you just as dead. Hell, coming down off of plain old alcohol could give you grand mal seizures - and the Belle Reeve electroshock cocktail wasn't exactly FDA approved.

He's seized twice so far, at least as far as he can tell. He feels cold, except his hands, which feel burning hot and won't stop shaking. The wallpaper is crawling.

The irony is almost worse than the withdrawals: Lex Luthor, finally having a bad trip, and it's not even the good shit. Lex Luthor, sitting in a puddle of cheap vodka, expensive scotch, and his own blood. Lex Luthor, dying safely in his own bedroom, wearing sweaty flannel pajamas. How anticlimactic.

Ok, Lex is pretty sure he isn't actually dying, but he feels about a billion times worse than when Clark fished him out of the river, or the time he OD'd (intentionally, just to see if he could), or any of the many, many, many concussions he's received since moving to East Bumblefuck, Kansas. His body hurt, his head hurt, his soul - good god, he is not drunk enough to be this maudlin; suffice it to say he's in a Very Dark Place and having a Very Bad Day. At least he's not hearing voices at the moment. Bright side, Alexander, bright side.

He sent everyone away when the tremors started, down to the last maid and gardener. He's got his cell phone with him, but no one to call (except an ambulance, and fuck that). Everyone wants something, and right now he has nothing to give, no leverage. No friends or favors to call in, because Lionel can get to anyone: club kiddies, back-alley doctors, nannies and butlers, salt-of-the-earth farmers and trust-fund socialites, maybe even the handful of drug lords still on Lex's Christmas card list. Hell, the only person too rich and too self-righteous and inexplicably fond of Lex was- oooh, riiiight.

Two rings, then: "Wayne residence. May I help you?"

"Al- Alfred? I need- Can I talk to-?"

"Right away, Master Alexander."

Lex was in the middle of another Swiss-cheese moment when Bruce picked up. He's not sure what was said, but whatever it was, Bruce was in some kind of helicopter by the time Lex was firing on all cylinders again. Inexplicably, he was now in the bathroom, with a box of butterfly bandages, two pill bottles, and a squeeze bottle of what appeared to be earwax softener.

"Bruce?"

"Keep talking, Alex, just another ten minutes-"

"That's great and all, B, but in the meantime I seem to have found a small quantity of little pills in my medicine cabinet. And I distinctly remember there being a less than small quantity of little pills in my medicine cabinet."

"Damn it, Lex, what did you take?"

"I'm honestly and sincerely hoping it was children's Tylenol, but experience says three-four methylenedioxy methamphetamine."

"Ecstasy? It won't kill you, will it?"

"Well, we'll see, won't we?"

"Can you-"

"I'm not sticking my finger down my throat. The last thing I need is to aspirate vomit. Besides, it won't hit me for another, oh, five or six minutes. You said you'd be here in ten, I'd call it a wash."

"How many did you take?"

"No clue."

"Will it react with whatever you already took?"

"Sorry, I didn't get a chance to talk shop with the chemists, I'm not sure which illegal, experimental drugs they gave me in between rounds of electroshock-not-calling-it-fucking-therapy."

"...well, shit."

"Also, my foot is bleeding."

And that's the last thing he remembers before Bruce is kicking in the door like the star of some fucking action movie blockbuster, and he tries to say something witty, but all that comes out is a sad little whine. He can't hear anything over the ringing in his ears, but he's pretty sure Bruce is bitching him out, and god, god, suddenly his skin is on fire, and all he can do is cling to the only friend he's ever really, truly trusted, and try to vomit away from the guy's thousand-dollar bespoke leather shoes.

Bruce goes home after it's all over, leaving behind some fancy miniature walkie-talkie and a promise to keep in touch. Eight years later, Lex's memories are gone, the world really is on fire, there's a mostly benevolent alien taking up residence in Metropolis... and Bruce is there to pick up the pieces.


End file.
